by Hayley Doyle
‘How are you?’ I ask, instantly wondering if I’ve said the wrong thing.
Trish folds her arms, a stance that reminds me of Jack. Arm-folding isn’t uncommon – I mean, we all do it. But it’s the way she taps the fingers of her left hand on her inner arm. Physically, Jack was larger, broader, taller than his mum, their size difference so extreme that if he ate her whole, he wouldn’t look like he’d put on any weight. And yet, here, there’s a distinct similarity, which I love and hate all at once.
‘I’m sad, Chloe,’ Trish sighs, looking directly at me. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever not be sad.’
‘Me too,’ I admit.
Her reply is silent: a subtle narrowing of her eyes.
God, I’d love to tell her that she’s going to be a grandma. A nan.
‘I’m sorry I never came to the wake,’ I say.
‘Oh. Didn’t you?’
‘No … I …’ … have no idea how to respond.
Trish takes the wall calendar down from the side of the fridge. It’s mine, one of the only household accessories I’ve contributed that’s in use. The themed photographs are of cats snapped in unusual objects; a novelty Christmas present from our Kit.
‘You are aware that it’s July?’ Trish asks.
I nod, puzzled, and follow Trish’s gaze downwards.
‘Oops.’ The current page is still on June.
With an unsubtle tut, Trish flicks to August. Her finger taps along the boxes and stops at the last weekend, pressing hard into the paper. She reaches into her handbag and takes out a pen – the sort nicked from a hotel room – then, adjusting her specs to dip to the end of her small nose, she peers at me with her naked eye.
‘My son, Freddie, is moving into this flat,’ she tells me, circling the date. ‘Then.’
‘Got it,’ I say, having got nothing at all.
Trish stands upright and holds out her arms as if to say well then. Or perhaps she wants me to give her a hug? Luckily, I don’t have to decide. I’m saved by the doorbell again. Giles or Ingrid inviting me upstairs for pasta, hopefully. I think. I leave the eerie silence between Jack’s mother and me, head to the front door and open it.
‘Chloe love! Whack the kettle on, will you?’
‘Mum?!’
‘Well, you wouldn’t come to me, so I’ve come to you.’
And now it’s my mum’s turn to barge past, stopping halfway down the narrow hallway.
‘Where’s your loo, love?’ she asks. ‘I’m desperate.’
Gobsmacked, I direct her to the bathroom. Attempting to process this unexpected arrival, I turn around to close the door.
‘Steady on, Tilly Mint! Don’t leave me hanging on the doorstep.’
‘Dad?!’
‘I tried to tell your mum you’d get a fright,’ he says, apologetically.
He takes my face in his hands and kisses the top of my head before pulling me into a hug. He’s boiling. God knows why, but he’s wearing his smartest winter coat. And the checked shirt beneath is fastened up to the top button. Little beads of sweat sit beneath his dark grey hairline – the neatest hairline you’ll ever see on a man of sixty-three; it’s not receding a jot. We’re the same height when I wear shoes, something he’s never come to terms with since I hit fifteen, remarking often, ‘God knows where we got this one from’. Although there’s no denying he’s my dad. We have the same wide grin, the same piercing blue eyes. The same patience with my mother.
A flush rattles through the flat and she emerges from the bathroom, her lipstick reapplied.
‘Bloody hell, Chloe, you couldn’t swing a cat in there,’ she says.
My mum combs through her auburn bob – highlighted with the cap – with her hands before dabbing her forehead and above her upper lip with her middle fingers. Then she shakes out her loose navy-blue shirt, which is hanging on her small curves.
‘I’m sweating cobs here,’ she says, stating the obvious. ‘I thought you lived in London, love, not halfway to bloody Kent. Them tubes! Jesus!’
My dad lifts up two matching overnight holdalls; grey and pink polka-dot from Matalan that they’ve had ever since I can remember.
‘Eh, Tilly Mint? Where shall I pop these?’ he asks.
I have no words.
What I do have, surprisingly, is energy, and I manage to make it into the kitchen area just before my mum invites herself in. A part of me wants to double-check that Trish is still there, that this isn’t a bonkers dream, or even whether luck is on my side and she’s decided to do one out the back door. But, no. She’s there, hands on hips, poised like a waxwork of herself.
‘You better have a teapot,’ my mum’s saying, her eyebrows instructing my dad to follow her through. ‘I never had a cuppa on the train; they leave the teabag in the plazzy cup. It’s just not proper, is it? I can’t tell you how much I’m gasping for a—Jesus Christ! Oh! Hiya Patricia. What the hell are you doing here?!’
Trish Carmichael – for once, in my experience of knowing her from the telly – joins me in being lost for words, her slim lips open. I need to intervene, to explain (although I’m not sure what I should be explaining) – except I’m far too slow on the ball.
‘Bernie, love,’ my mum says, punching my dad, her teeth clenched. ‘Say hiya.’
‘Hiya, love,’ my dad sings. ‘Y’alright?’
Trish blinks frantically. ‘I’m quite alright. Yes.’
‘Oh, I’m a massive fan of yours, Patricia,’ my mum says; the words I was dreading she’d say, told myself she’d never dream of saying, and yet, there you go, she’s said them. ‘You know, I don’t work full-time anymore, not since I turned sixty, so Monday, Tuesday, Friday I never miss you on the telly. And you know what? I always agree with everything you say. I do, you know. I get on the phone to me mum – she’s eighty-seven but mind as sharp as a knife – and I say that Patricia Carmichael’s hit the nail on the head again. And I have to be honest with meself, Trish, I don’t usually agree with a Tory.’
‘I’d never have guessed,’ Trish says, now poised.
‘What’s the model like in real life, the one who keeps getting the surgery?’ my mum goes on. ‘Because I worry for that poor girl, you know, I do. One of these days her face’s gonna pop and she’ll never get another husband again. And the fella, the washed-up pop star from when our Chloe was little, he’s clever isn’t he? You wouldn’t have guessed it. But he’s very bright, always says the right thing when you’re all debating the headlines. A good family man, too.’
Trish nods slowly.
‘Look at me,’ my mum says, slapping her cheeks, her sweaty, heavily made-up face now melting into her palms. ‘Gabbing away to none other than Patricia Carmichael. Anyone’d think we were mates. Ignore me, just pretend I’m not here, ignore everything I said.’
‘I’ll try,’ Trish says.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ my dad pipes up and snaps his fingers. ‘I’ve just cottoned on to who you are. The pleasure’s all mine, Patricia, all mine, my love. Weren’t you in the jungle last year?’
Trish sighs. ‘No.’
I jump in.
‘Trish,’ I say. ‘This is Sue, and this is Bernie; me mum and me dad.’
‘Again,’ Trish says, reaching for her Michael Kors handbag. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
I laugh, because that was a joke, right? She was being funny, yeah?
My mum laughs with me, my dad joining in a slow moment later.
‘She’d never’ve guessed,’ he jokes.
‘Do you live around here, Trish?’ my mum asks. ‘Is that how you know our Chloe? ’Cause I don’t know how you do it, how anyone does it. Them tubes. All the people. Some bloody big fella was effing and blinding at me and Bernie ’cause we were minding our own business, weren’t we, love? Just standing still on them escalators.’
‘“Keep right! Keep right!” he was yelling,’ my dad calls out, his hand cupping the side of his mouth. ‘Like he had this almighty power over us. Bloody Londoners.’
‘We stoo
d our ground, didn’t we, Bernie love?’
‘Mum,’ I stop her. ‘Trish is Jack’s mum.’
‘Oh!’ she squeaks. ‘Oh! Oh!’
I look to my dad for help. He gives a dainty shrug and tenses his jaw; his brow. He’s not going to help. He’s helpless.
I stand like piggy in the middle between my mum and Trish, there to stop any forward advances my mum is likely to make. Only, she knows me too well. She guesses my tactic, and like a top-scoring Premiership striker, slips past me the opposite way from my block, and her hands grip Trish’s forearms.
‘Of course,’ my mum says. ‘I can see the resemblance now. He was the image of you.’
Hmm. He wasn’t, but—
‘Did you meet him?’ Trish asks, quite genuinely.
My mum shakes her head. ‘Our Chloe sent me photos on that WhatsApp.’
Trish never got a photo of me, did she? Of course not. Jack never sent one. Not that I asked him to, or expected him to; it’s just that right now, I wish he had. My mum’s talking to Trish about God now, saying how she’ll be remembering Jack in her prayers. My dad’s removed his coat and is hovering, looking for somewhere to hang it.
‘I’m speechless,’ my mum says, vomiting words. ‘Just speechless.’
If I turn right, I could snatch my keys and leg it to the Sainsbury’s Local as planned.
Or, if I turn left, I can hide in the bathroom. That old trick.
I go for the latter.
Letting the cold water run, I dab the back of my neck with a few splashes, not wanting to smudge my red lipstick. I’ve made an effort today, and believe me, that really puts the word effort to its full use. And I mean, fuck. My mum and dad are here, in my new flat, which isn’t new and isn’t mine. Not for much longer anyway. I’m being evicted, which was to be expected, but once again, the decision about when to end the special entity of me and Jack is being taken away ruthlessly. I need a steady pace; I need to let our story play out, please.
I look up, hopeful of seeing Jack in the mirror. Nothing. So I reach into the shower and take hold of his shower gel. Opening the lid, I inhale the aroma of bergamot and try to feel him; find him. And shit! I drop the bottle. An ache engulfs me.
No, please, please, no. No.
I bend, pull down my knickers and sit on the toilet.
Another first.
I reach down to the little box beside the spare loo roll and unwrap a tampon. Never before has this simple act symbolised so fucking much. Any chance of having Jack’s child has gone, wiped out as quickly as a man gets hit by a van. Is it stupid that I’d been banking on a part of Jack living within me? It seemed like the fairest outcome of a most horridly unfair situation, right? Doesn’t every cloud have a silver fucking lining?
I guess not.
Oh, God. I’m empty.
I breathe slowly, in and out. I bite my fist.
Making my way back to the kitchen, willing Trish to be gone, I’m also hoping my mum and dad have made a snap decision to get out of the London they hate so much. But no. My mum’s talking about our Kit’s wedding and my dad’s still holding his coat.
‘He’s having a portable photo booth which’s costing a fortune,’ she’s telling Trish. ‘I don’t know why. I mean, can you name one person who likes the look of themselves on a passport photo? Bernie looks like a bloody serial killer on his, don’t you, love? But our Kit knows what’s trendy, I’ll give him that. He’s wearing Paul Smith, you know.’
Trish catches my eye.
‘I need to get going, Chloe,’ she says. ‘I’ve marked the calendar for you. You’ve got my number if you’re able to get out sooner. Okay?’
I say nothing and my mum widens her eyes at me, telepathically spelling out how my silence is embarrassing her and my dad. But I don’t care. I’m sick of the overwhelming sense that the last few months of my life are being belittled wherever I turn. I’m invisible to all who knew Jack, and my own family are jumping on that bandwagon, too. This is wrong, and I have to prove it. It happened. Jack and me, it fucking happened. It was sexy, it was annoying, it was frustrating, it was perfect, it was mediocre, it was shocking, it was hilarious, it was real. It happened.
‘Bye bye Trish.’ My mum sees her out and my dad plays follow-the-leader, trailing behind, carrying his coat. ‘It’s an absolute pleasure to have met you.’
I think I hear Trish say, ‘Likewise.’
‘And if you ever find yourself in our neck of the woods,’ my dad’s saying, ‘here’s me card; Bernie Roscoe Taxis. We’ve only got a handful of cars but we’re the most reliable in Liverpool.’
They’re waving Trish off like the Beverly bloody Hillbillies. I can’t see them, but I know they’ll continue to wave until Trish’s car is out of sight.
‘How could you forget to tell me who Jack’s mother is?’ my mum cries once she’s back in the room, making her way to the kettle knowing full well I won’t be making tea anytime soon. ‘And where’s your teapot, Chloe?’
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘Dad?’
‘We’re just worried about you, love,’ he tells me. His coat has disappeared and I imagine he’s hung it on the rack beside Jack’s parka. ‘I told your mum you just needed some time, but let’s face it, it’s already been a month and we get the feeling you aren’t coping.’
‘How?’ I squeal, aware of how similar I sound to my mum, who’s looking through all the cupboards for a bloody teapot.
‘Beth said she’s hardly seen you,’ she says, impatience oozing out of her.
‘She lives in Islington and it’s a hike to get there from Lewisham after work,’ I say.
‘She also said you’re full of excuses. Wanting to spend time with Jack. Chloe, love. He’s in Heaven.’
I need them to get out.
My dad is inspecting the lounge with a childish grin, as if he’s just arrived at a self-catering holiday apartment on the Med. He tests out the sofa with a buoyant bounce, then gets up and tests the other side by lying down with his hands behind his head, putting his feet up but letting them hover without touching the cushions. He twists around to look out of the window.
‘Shame about the view, eh?’ he remarks, referring to the stone stairs and the gravel.
‘You sound like Jack,’ I say.
‘We really are very sorry, love,’ my dad says, sitting and patting the seat beside him.
I take it, my head falling naturally into his shoulder. I want to be ten again, sad that my bike got a puncture and I had to push the damn thing all the way home from the park. Or sad because I got the knock-back from the pub when I was sixteen and my dad had to come and pick me up, all dressed up and nowhere to go.
‘Yesss!’ Mum shouts from the kitchen. Miraculously, she’s found a teapot. ‘Now come on, Chloe. Give us a smile, will you?’
‘I thought I was pregnant,’ I say. My dad’s arm tenses around me and I panic that my mum might drop and smash the teapot. ‘It’s alright, it’s alright – I’m not. Pregnant.’
‘Oh thank God,’ my dad says and buries his face in his hands. He thinks he’s saying the right thing, bless him.
‘Actually, I’m …’ I search for the correct word, ‘disappointed.’ Except that doesn’t give weight to the truth. I’d be disappointed if I failed my driving test.
‘But you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Tilly Mint,’ my dad says. I don’t need to remind him that I’m thirty-six. He’ll forever see me in my purple shell suit and Pony trainers, attempting Dirty Dancing routines in the back garden. ‘Tell her, Sue.’
My mum is cradling the teapot, rubbing it absent-mindedly with a tea towel. Oh, what I’d give for a genie to appear and give me three wishes so I could vanish. Or send them back up north on the bloody train.
‘Oh, Chloe love,’ my mum whimpers, ‘you’ve no idea how happy this makes me.’
I shift beside my dad. He chokes on thin air.
‘I never thought you wanted children,’ she goes on, ‘but you do, and that makes me and your d
ad so happy, love. Isn’t that right, Bernie? I’d honestly given up. Honestly thought, nope. She’s one of them. Not interested. I mean, it’s always baffled me, you know, the fact that you’re not very career-driven either, but—’
‘Whoa. Mum. Stop. And I’ll say it again, I’m not pregnant.’
‘But you want to be! And now’s your chance. You’re gonna meet a fabulous fella, love. I can feel it in me water. He might be just around the corner. Or better still, in Liverpool. A nice Liverpool lad, Chloe. Wouldn’t that be marvellous? And you’ll get your baby. You will.’
I stand, to enforce an end to this conversation.
‘Mum, have some respect. Please. You’re in Jack’s flat. Amongst Jack’s things.’
‘Exactly. Jack’s! Not yours!’
My dad jumps up and rubs his hands together with vigour. He’s got an idea.
‘Who fancies a Chinese tonight, ladies? Any good chippies around here, Tilly Mint?’
My phone starts ringing and I practically do the splits leaping across the room to answer it.
‘Hello!’ I sing, paying no attention to the caller or number.
‘Hi, this is Gianna. I’m calling from Antonella,’ says the melodic Italian accent. ‘Is this Chloe Roscoe?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Just calling to confirm your reservation for this evening at 8 p.m.?’
‘Oh …’ Jack’s birthday treat. I’d genuinely forgotten.
He turned thirty-eight the week before he died. I couldn’t get a table for his actual birthday weekend; the earliest possible night was, well, tonight. I glance at the business card for Antonella on the fridge, the words embossed in gold scroll. I’d been meaning to cancel. Seems dialling a number to cancel a reservation for your dead boyfriend’s bucket-list restaurant isn’t the easiest task to complete.
‘Hello, Chloe? Are you still there?’ Gianna asks.
I clear my throat. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘Wonderful. See you tonight then?’
I hear my mum tell my dad there’s a red wine stain on the carpet.
‘Yeah …’ I panic.
‘Great! So that’s a table for two at 8 p.m.—’
